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It's no use. He's here. Miles is still effortless and aloof. He's still unaffected.
The guy has already moved on from the blonde in the bedroom. He's flirting with a redhead in a designer dress and stilettos.
She's model gorgeous with perfect hair and makeup. I'm standing here in an H&M skirt and blouse, my brown hair its usual frizzy mess, my black eyeliner doing little to enhance my plain-Jane brown eyes. Liner, mascara, and under-eye concealer are the extent of my makeup knowledge. I think I'm the only woman here who isn't contoured. Hell, I know I'm the only one wearing canvas sneakers.
I don't belong here.
It doesn't make sense that Miles is looking at me instead of the pretty redhead.
But he is. His clear blue eyes are fixed on mine. They're gorgeous. I couldn't see them in the dark but out here, they're practically shining.
Heat spreads across my chest. I'm gawking.
He smiles, reveling in my attention.
I press my eyelids together to temper my out-of-control blushing. It's no help. My head fills with that beautiful image of him in nothing but a condom.
Why did I let Kara talk me into coming to this party?
I push my way through the crowd, trying to get as far from Miles's gaze as possible. A dozen steps and I'm standing in the clean, modern kitchen. It's dark and mostly empty.
"You're not big on respecting people's privacy, huh?"
It's the same voice I heard upstairs. Miles.
I could swear I've heard it before. A lot, even.
I turn so we're face to face. Why does Miles seem so familiar? I don't go to parties. Hell, I've been MIA the last few months.
I wouldn't forget his strong jaw, his messy brown hair, or his gorgeous blue eyes.
Those eyes are fixed on me. He's staring at me, picking me apart.
I don't like the scrutiny. Sure, I'm hiding. But I'm not admitting that to him.
I clear my throat. "No, I'm not big on alcohol. Can't find anything else to drink."
He reaches past me. His hand brushes against my shoulder as he pulls open the fridge. He nods to a row of water bottles on the middle shelf. "Help yourself."
"Thanks."
Miles looks so familiar. And his voice is familiar t
oo. Almost like he...
No. That's not possible.
There's no way this guy is the singer of alternative rock band Sinful Serenade, the guy who sings In Pieces, the guy who's been haunting my thoughts for the last three months with his breathy, tortured voice. With all the pain in his soulful eyes.
I try to recall the song's music video but my damn brain goes right back to the image of Miles naked on the bed.
Damn. I watched that video a thousand times. It was a massive hit. The song hit the top 40 for a week or two, a rarity for alternative rock in this day and age.
More importantly, the video and the song went right to my soul. The singer was whispering in my ear. He promised that I wasn't alone. He promised that I wasn't the only person who had ever felt this way.
I understood him and he understood me. We were the only two people in the world who knew how badly it hurt, losing everything that mattered.
The man who sings In Pieces is a tortured soul. He doesn't screw one woman, wash up, then move on to flirting with lay number two.
